Ran across this on Tumblr and it was such a fucking turn-on I had to share it:
Yeah, I get that I’m hot. I’ve got a body, a cute face, and I know guys dig my scruff. I know I could go out to a club tonight and find some slutty little twink who I could bring home to go down on me, or spread his legs, or fuck me up the ass. No, it’s not that I won’t do it because it wouldn’t make me feel better—who am I kidding, a blowjob always makes you feel better. Weird as it sounds, I don’t do it out of loyalty, out of some weird sense of fealty and devotion to something that doesn’t exist anywhere but in my head. (Which is ironic, considering how often he encourages me to go out, find some guy, and get myself laid.)
So I won’t go out, and tonight will be the same as every Tuesday, and Thursday, and twice on weekends. She’ll come over, and they’ll disappear into his bedroom, and then they’ll come out an hour later. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the bed shaking, or her moans, or his grunts—always three times in short succession, no more, no less—when he cums. I’ll smile, she’ll smile, he’ll smile, and we’ll all make polite small talk, with her telling me about the new gay guy in her department I just have to meet, until they leave to go out to dinner.
And then I’ll sneak into his bedroom. Even though I’ve been in there I don’t know, dozens of times by now, every time I crack that door open it feels illicit, makes my heart race. Even though I’ll try to work up some roommate-indignation about how messy he keeps the place, the sight of all his discarded clothes strewn over the floor (what is he, 16?) will make me smile even as the sight of the unkempt bed—and the knowledge of why exactly the sheets are twisted and askew—doesn’t.
It’ll be in the trash can by his nightstand, under a couple of kleenexes that she used to freshen up with afterwards. I’ll take it into the bathroom and, while jacking my dick that’s as hard as it’s ever been, get as close to him as I can.
Yeah, I get that I’m hot. I’ve got a body, a cute face, and I know guys dig my scruff. I know I could go out to a club tonight and find some slutty little twink who I could bring home to go down on me, or spread his legs, or fuck me up the ass. No, it’s not that I won’t do it because it wouldn’t make me feel better—who am I kidding, a blowjob always makes you feel better. Weird as it sounds, I don’t do it out of loyalty, out of some weird sense of fealty and devotion to something that doesn’t exist anywhere but in my head. (Which is ironic, considering how often he encourages me to go out, find some guy, and get myself laid.)
So I won’t go out, and tonight will be the same as every Tuesday, and Thursday, and twice on weekends. She’ll come over, and they’ll disappear into his bedroom, and then they’ll come out an hour later. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the bed shaking, or her moans, or his grunts—always three times in short succession, no more, no less—when he cums. I’ll smile, she’ll smile, he’ll smile, and we’ll all make polite small talk, with her telling me about the new gay guy in her department I just have to meet, until they leave to go out to dinner.
And then I’ll sneak into his bedroom. Even though I’ve been in there I don’t know, dozens of times by now, every time I crack that door open it feels illicit, makes my heart race. Even though I’ll try to work up some roommate-indignation about how messy he keeps the place, the sight of all his discarded clothes strewn over the floor (what is he, 16?) will make me smile even as the sight of the unkempt bed—and the knowledge of why exactly the sheets are twisted and askew—doesn’t.
It’ll be in the trash can by his nightstand, under a couple of kleenexes that she used to freshen up with afterwards. I’ll take it into the bathroom and, while jacking my dick that’s as hard as it’s ever been, get as close to him as I can.